DYING.

The sun kept setting, setting still;

No hue of afternoon

Upon the village I perceived, —

From house to house‘ t was noon.

The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;

No dew upon the grass,

But only on my forehead stopped,

And wandered in my face.

My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,

My fingers were awake;

Yet why so little sound myself

Unto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before!

I could not see it now.

‘ T is dying, I am doing; but

I'm not afraid to know.